


Little Thing

by ladyflowdi



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Anal Sex, Boys In Love, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, Internalized Homophobia, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Virginity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-07-13
Updated: 2006-07-13
Packaged: 2017-12-19 06:41:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/880628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyflowdi/pseuds/ladyflowdi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It wasn’t that John had a problem with his ass, per se.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Little Thing

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this in 2006 for the sgaflashfic challenge, "virginity". Rereading this for posting, it really struck me how far gay rights have come. In 2006, the sentiment in this story fit in with our cultural paradigm -- gay men had to hide who and what they were, most especially in the military. Now, seven years later, the sentiment feels outdated. I can't tell you all how thrilled I am to say that.

It wasn’t that John had a problem with his ass, per se.

John and his ass had a long history together-- they’d been comrades in arms through thick and thin, food poisoning and stomach flu. It had served him well over the years, doing the everyday things asses did when they weren’t on display in ill-fitting BDU’s or hip hugging denim -- sitting, walking, and other less pleasant functions it was impolite to talk about in public.

John had learned early on that if he nurtured his ass, made sure he didn’t drink too much coffee and ate enough bran, they were on friendly terms. He’d also learned that playing Russian Roulette with his lower bowel made his asshole slam shut and bed down for winter.

John would never admit it to anyone but his priest, but one of the main factors he’d weighed against coming to a new galaxy was the biggest concern any soldier had when moving to a new country. He’d experienced untold horrors at the hands of the desert and the arctic -- stomach cramps so foul he’d burped battery acid, the shits so bad that it was like pissing lighter fluid out of his ass. 

His imagination had supplied, in graphic detail, what would happen once his gut met another planet. He had gone so far as to dream up mortifying scenarios about Beckett and bed pans, pretty nurses and snaking tubes, suppositories and enemas. The stuff of nightmares.

Thank God the Ancients knew what was important to a man, and their bathrooms were as lush as they were sparse about everything else. Even though the food was unpredictable, John found he’d gotten a little routine going -- rule 1 in the Soldier’s Guide to Surviving Without Pepto Bismal. So long as they didn’t run out of TP again, which didn’t seem likely now that Caldwell was their Super Shopper and had his priorities straight when it came to military issue versus Charmin Plus, and John got his fifteen minutes every morning, everything was A-OK.

Plus, John could flush with his mind. If that wasn’t cool, he didn’t know what was.

"Rodney, wait!"

Rodney’s mouth was as big as the rest of him, wide, slashing, and so hot it burned. " _Fuck_ waiting!"

"Rodney--" The door swished shut, they spun, and Rodney slammed him against it so hard the crystals rattled in the wall. John shoved and shifted and tried his damndest to flip them, but Rodney was misleadingly strong. That infuriating mouth _sneered_ , so John did what came natural and wiped it off of Rodney’s face.

Everything John had ever considered regarding his butt changed when Rodney came into John’s life. Though ‘came’ was such a demure and mild word, when Rodney had in fact been very Roman about it, conquering John with as much ruthlessness as Caesar, sacking and pillaging along the way. Rodney was now firmly entrenched in what was once enemy territory, staking his claim with a smirk and a sign that said, ‘You’ve had sex with the most brilliant man in two galaxies. Resistance is futile.’

And it was. _John_ was. Totally ruined. And why not? Rodney was a goddamned sex kitten in bed. Okay, maybe not so much kitten as ‘feral cat’, but still. He made these low, groaning noises when John muscled between his thighs, then sharp, high cries when John sucked him off, his fingers crammed up that tight ass as far as they could go, milking it from both ends until Rodney’s toes curled and his heels beat a drum against John’s back. And when Rodney had enough, and he looked like debauched sin with his legs spread and his hips tilted, he snarled--

"I swear to whatever -- uh, _God_ \-- deity watching us, if you don’t fuck me--" Each word was punctuated by John’s hard thrust against Rodney’s body, as much give as he could get plastered against the wall. Rodney’s voice shook so hard John could only understand one word in ten. Not that he had any ears to listen with, seeing as Rodney was chewing them into oblivion. "If you don’t -- oh, God!" 

So John thrust again, harder, and when Rodney’s knees went to goo, John took his chance. He flipped them, slamming Rodney into the door so that the moan turned breathless and gasping, and wrenched Rodney’s thigh higher around John’s hip. He thrust, hard enough that he knew he was lifting Rodney almost off his toes with every push, but he couldn’t stop. 

He’d tried to resist. God knew he’d tried. Rodney was not unlike a particularly hard-to-kill fungus, an admittedly sexy and interesting fungus, with adorable fungus hair, but a fungus all the same. The last time John had tried to beat some sense into that thick head and explain just why they couldn‘t do this (he’d had _a flowchart_ ), Rodney just shoved his underwear the rest of the way down, spread his legs so John could see how flushed and swollen and _greedy_ his asshole still was after their impromptu fuck in a bathroom that morning, and gasped through bruised, red lips, _"Yes, yes, it’s all against regulation, now shut up and fuck me."_

It was like an addiction. No matter how hard John tried to rationalize what was rapidly becoming an irrational situation, he couldn’t find a way out. 

Every time he swore this was it, the end, his mind supplied a Power Point presentation on just why Giving This Up Would Be Bad. Rodney, groaning low and guttural with pleasure. Rodney, bucking into him, face flushed, lower lip caught in his teeth. Rodney, his face a grimace, throbbing around John’s cock in time with his pained gasps, then roaring with pleasure when John _twisted_ and hit that spot inside. 

Or better yet, prone, or on his hands and knees, or John’s favorite -- Rodney perched high on John‘s hips, one big hand bracing himself on John’s chest, the other flying on his own erection, bouncing hard and fast on John‘s dick. His hips jerked until Rodney was babbling hysterically on every down stroke, until his eyes rolled back in his head and John was sure he was leaving finger-shaped bruises on Rodney’s hips. Rodney moved until sweat ran down his face, over the hollow of his throat and down, down until it dripped sweet onto John’s skin. He moved until he was close, then it was a slow, deep grind, and John couldn’t hear Rodney over the thundering of his blood. 

Rodney got off on John‘s fingers, his tongue, his cock; toe curling, head thumping, fingers twisting in the sheets _got off on it_. It was damn near a religious experience to see all that arrogance cave under the need, to watch Rodney come undone with the merest of brushes against his hole. To watch his fingers disappear into Rodney’s body, to feel smooth walls and the soft lump that was his prostate -- to watch Rodney writhe, his thighs clenching, his broad chest heaving, shoulders curving under the pleasure John could give him.

And sliding into him. Rodney’s legs would clench around John’s and _shove_ forward, every single time if he could manage it, like he couldn’t wait for it, like he wanted it so badly that he’d suffer the pain to claw into the pleasure, until his back arched and the sounds coming from him were way past moaning and groaning and into full-on sobs. If he was on edge, he’d come just from pushing John in -- spilling over his belly, ass quivering, his hips moving in short, sharp bursts. Rodney McKay in the throes of orgasm was once a thing John was certain he’d never want to experience, but then he _had_. Rodney’s eyes went filmy with shock before squeezing shut, and his face _twisted_ , a grimace of pleasure that had to be the sexiest thing John had ever witnessed on another human being.

Oh, Rodney was an addiction, alright, and one John couldn’t stop. He dared any man to have a mewling Rodney mounted on his cock and try.

"Now," Rodney growled, actually _growled_ , his hips moving with fast, sharp intent. That brain was working a million miles a minute despite the fact that John had his hand down Rodney’s pants, and John was practically holding Rodney up, and the both of them were so close to orgasm John could taste it in the back of his mouth.

"Okay, you idiot, if you’re going to stare at me like a moron, then--" Rodney tugged his leg from John’s grasp and swayed as he got back on two feet. Shaking hands wrenched at his shirt, clawed at his belt, all but popped the button from his pants until his shirt came free and hot, hot hands slid under.

"God, yes," John said, or might have said, or quite possibly squeaked, but it was kind of muffled as he was tugging his shirt over his head. His dog tags got tangled in the zip somehow, and his hair got caught, and Rodney, not realizing John was about to scalp himself, nosed the hair on John’s chest again and latched onto his nipple with the same ferociousness he‘d attacked John‘s still-stinging ears.

Oh, hell yes.

"Shit," he gasped, and yanked, and the shirt/dog tag combo took a little hair with it, but oh good God he didn’t _care_ because Rodney’s clever, clever fingers had found the bulge in John’s pants and squeezed. And then he was dropping to his knees, and oh, hel _lo_. "Whoa, tiger!"

Rodney might have said "What?" or possibly "Meh?" or maybe even "Ahhh?", but it was lost in crease of John’s groin where Rodney had his face pressed, where he was sucking, and it had once been disconcerting to know that Rodney knew which way he dressed to, but right now he didn’t _care_. That was hot breath on his balls, and tense fingers on his cock, and-- "Stop!"

Wait-- no. 

"What?" Rodney asked, glazed eyes wide and mouth wet as he stared upwards. And then he was rolling his eyes, and unzipping John’s fly, and muttering, "Yes, yes, Don’t Ask and We Won’t Bother Giving You The Details, etcetera, now--" and that mouth moved over John’s cock, still talking, and sucking, and tongue lashing fast and firm over the head of John’s dick.

"Ohhhh, sweet--" _Jesus_ , and John stumbled, tripping over the carpet and hitting the edge of his desk in an unpleasant way, but not even the throbbing in his tailbone could stop him from moving his hips because Rodney had stumbled right after him, and… and he had his hand cupped under John’s balls, and his tongue dancing along the vein underneath John’s dick.

"Christ, Rodney, stop a second, will you?" he begged. 

Maybe it was something in his voice, or maybe it was the shudder that went through him, but Rodney looked up again, expression annoyed. His mouth had gone from simply wet to sex-bruised and swollen, with that angry slant to it. John went weak at the knees. "You know, I understand you’ve been on another resistance move lately, what with the emails about gay policy every two hours yesterday, but you’re about six months and eighty three blow jobs too late for the big gay freak out. Whatever the hell your problem is, get over it."

The words provided the splash of cold water John needed. He glared down at Rodney’s rolling eyes. "You know how many times you’ve blown me?"

"Of course I do," Rodney said in that infuriating way he had when he was sure John was being purposely dense just to piss him off. "What does that have to do with anything? What could possibly be more important than getting your dick sucked?"

"Weren’t you just saying yesterday that all I _do_ is think with my dick?"

Rodney stared at him as if he’d lost his mind. "We’re having sex. That’s what men do during sex. We think, primarily, with our dicks."

"You are such a bastard."

"Thank you," Rodney said, with a genuine smile. 

John caught him before he could lower his head again. Rodney’s enraged spluttering over John’s manhandling of the few follicles he had left was ignored. "I was trying to tell you something."

"What? I ask again, what could possibly be more--"

"I think that maybe I want you to fuck me."

And then silence. Perfect, ringing silence. With Rodney, the event was such a rarity that John basked in the moment.

Rodney’s eyes bugged and his mouth gaped open. He looked like a very unattractive fish who had met his fate with a nice lemon sauce. "Eh?"

"Nice," John smirked.

Rodney gave him the patented, ‘I can’t believe you’re actually breathing my air, plebe’ glare. "Forgive me if I revert to my Canadian roots when my Colonel, a man who can get _plants_ aroused, wants me to fuck him. I thought you _liked_ topping."

_My Colonel_. John was pretty sure he didn‘t turn into a thirteen year old girl in that moment, but it was a near thing. "I do, and hey, that was low. I didn‘t _know_ they were plants." That hadn’t even been his fault, anyway. "I’m not saying I don’t like your ass. Because I do. Like it. I just want to, uh." He exhaled and stared at the ceiling. "Are you going to make me say it again?"

"For posterity's sake," Rodney said. He was still doing a fine impression of a fish, but there was a hint of vulnerability now. His Adam’s apple bobbed and his fingers loosened from their death grip on John’s hips. "You‘re actually serious? Why now?"

Oh yeah. John had worried somewhere in the back of his mind that maybe Rodney wouldn’t be okay with the idea, seeing as he was a greedy little slut of a bottom most of the time, but seeing those big blue eyes staring at him with thick arousal… yeah. "I figure that there’s a reason you like it so much. And I liked it when you, uh…" He coughed and cleared his throat. "With the fingers. A few weeks ago."

Long, long, _long_ fingers that had pushed inside him and scared the hell out of him. That they had felt good was of no consequence during the resulting freak out. 

Rodney’s lips curved, but his eyes were creased. "If I remember correctly, you almost bashed my nose in with your foot, then ran out of here half dressed and cursing up a storm, _then_ proceeded to ignore me for two days," Rodney said, and waggled his fingers up at John. 

Long, thick fingers. Skilled fingers. They could play John like a fiddle. 

His dick took the moment to twitch and smack Rodney across the jaw.

Rodney choked, and John stared, and they stared in silence for a moment before Rodney did that horrible little choking sound of indignation in the back of his throat, and that just set _John_ off. And in that moment, Rodney snarling felt okay, better than okay, because sex with him was fun, and John knew he’d make it good.

They both quieted, Rodney smiling that crooked, lopsided smile of his, and John softened, rubbing his fingers over Rodney’s cheek, his thumb along Rodney’s lower lip. "Sorry about that."

"I’d mention something about a leash, but that would be in bad taste," Rodney said, rolling his eyes again as he brushed his teeth over John’s thumb, scraped once, and something in John’s gut tugged low and made his cock twitch again. This time Rodney had his fingers around it, though, and it felt-- _God_. "What made you…?"

"I just want to. I’ve never… you know, and you seem to really like it, so…"

"No, really?" Rodney asked, the smirk softening to a weird kind of tenderness. His fingers were calm on John’s hips now, instead of fierce and bruising. "You really want this?"

"You seem to know what you‘re doing."

"With your ass."

John rolled his eyes. "Yes, with my ass. And whatever other appendages you might decide to bestow your blessing to," John said, and twitched his hips.

Rodney’s eyes were bright, staring at him as if trying to decipher him. One wouldn‘t think so, but all of that impressive intellect centered solely on the unsuspecting individual could have a very damning effect on the nether regions. "Here’s the thing. A yes or no deal here. If you’re going to lose your last piece of virginity to me, I’m going to do it right. You ready for that?"

John could feel his eyebrows arch up to his hairline. Since coming to the Pegasus galaxy, his eyebrows and his bangs had been together so often that John was sure they were practically trading recipes at this point. "I guess. Just not… that thing. The thing that Ford made us watch."

"What-- oh God, that German porno with the -- Colonel, what in our time together makes you think I’m at all interested stuffing my fist up your ass?" John choked, violently, and Rodney continued on. "Besides, you’re much too virgin for that yet," he said loudly over John’s splutters, which could only kindly be called ‘incoherent’.

And with that, Rodney climbed to his feet, took John’s by now _blood red_ face in his hands, and gave him a kiss that was much more romantic than either of them really liked. John did not, in any way, do anything as incriminating as _melt_ \-- he manfully sagged against his very pointy desk. "Let’s shower."

John cleared his throat, ears itching and heart thudding. "Shower?"

"Mmm," Rodney said. He took John’s wrist and tugged him to the bathroom. "Trust me on this. It’s an ass virgin thing."

"Ass virgin thing," John said hollowly. Oh, God. "Rodney."

"Hmm?" Rodney was way more distracted than the conversation warranted, seeing as he was busily turning the shower on and fetching the god awful military towels that two years in Pegasus had put a few cozy holes in. 

John almost choked on his words. "I’m the military commander of this base."

Rodney turned and gave him an incredulous look. "Congratulations. Set a good example and encourage your men to get laid," he said, and tugged his shirt over his head, the son of _Satan_ , because all it took was one good look at those tiny, perky nipples for John to lose his powers of self control all over again. Addiction. _Addiction_. "I think some of them could do with letting loose every once in a while. Lorne, for example."

"Rodney, please don’t talk about my Marines while we’re naked," John begged.

"We’re not naked yet. Besides, Lorne needs to get laid. He’s way too tense. More so since he started taking Parrish out on missions. All that unresolved sexual tension isn‘t healthy," Rodney said as his pants fell down his hips. 

John’s heart kicked up so hard he almost choked on it as it made a pass at coming up his throat to say hello to the world. "Rodney--"

"Well it’s not!" He kicked his pants off, and perched his hands on his hips. Rodney was all length and solid bone, heavy muscles and long sinews. Thick biceps and thighs, solid chest, and wide, firm shoulders all led down to the most gorgeous hips John had ever seen in his entire life -- hips meant to be grabbed and restrained when they quivered with suppressed strength. To have that kind of power bucking between John’s thighs was a brain busting experience. To have it over him would be something completely different. 

Something in John’s expression must have screamed just what he was feeling, because Rodney sighed, took his wrist again, and peered at him. "You trust me?"

Always, even when Rodney almost destroyed them both. The downright girly tenderness neither of them would ever show one another was in Rodney’s eyes. It made the violent pounding of John’s heart ease, and he expelled a slow, steady breathe. "You know I do."

"Okay, then. This isn’t as scary as you’re thinking." Rodney smirked. "You could say I have practice. My boyfriend keeps me on my toes. Literally."

John’s expression twisted with distaste at the word ‘boyfriend’, which always felt like it was ripped off a new-age sitcom, when the blatantly gay best buddy chatted with his girlfriends over his newest conquest. "Your--" Lover? Significant other? Partner? " _He_ must have both stamina and incredible good looks."

"Not really," Rodney said, tugging John’s pants down as John spluttered again. "He’s way too skinny, and has this porcupine shock of hair that makes him look like he met the wrong end of a tazer. And did I mention his ears? _Spock_ ears. Though to a self proclaimed geek like me, the idea is kind of hot." Rodney paused, looking thoughtful. "I always knew Kirk was the bottom in that relationship."

John made a face and kicked off his pants. "Kirk was all blubber and beer belly. You are not Kirk, thank you."

"I’ll take that as the backhanded compliment it is," Rodney said. His fingers traced John’s ribs, down the belly firmed with off-world missions, and slid around his hips to lace behind his back. They didn’t say anything, and it was so easy to wrap his arms around Rodney and lean in close. That tight knot inside eased slowly, and John exhaled into Rodney’s neck. 

Rodney ruined it by snickering. "On second thought, I’m not sure if there’s much of an ass here to take," he said, and squeezed said ass suggestively.

"Hey! If I don’t have much of one, its because your molecules hoarded all the ass atoms. Not all of us can have a--"

"Don’t say it."

John smirked into Rodney’s shoulder. "Heart shaped--"

"Don’t say it!" Rodney scowled, but his hands tightened on John’s backside, then slid further down to stroke his inner thighs. "Besides, I’ve heard no complaints."

John grinned again, drawing a heart with his index finger on the nearest butt cheek. "One of these days, I will write an ode to this ass."

"It may very well be the last thing you do in this man’s Air Force."

"What a way to go."

They were quiet for a moment, before Rodney said, uncharacteristically serious, "I’ve never deflowered a virgin before. If you‘re nervous -- well, no, feel free to be as nervous as you like."

"I’m not doing this because of that."

Rodney glanced up with a frown. "This isn’t some stupid macho posturing, right?"

"How can it be, when the words ‘deflowering‘ and ‘virgin‘ are used to describe my ass?" He tightened his arms around Rodney’s back and added, lightly, "I figured if you liked it, and did it without complaint most of the time despite the hypochondria, it was worth doing."

"I am in no way a hypochondriac. I have well documented medical conditions! Now come on. The last thing I need is a cold from standing naked in a drafty bathroom."

This, at least, was familiar. The hard almost-tile underfoot, the hot water pounding down from the weird shower head, the echo of it against the thin, water powered barrier that came up around the lip of the tile. Even Rodney was familiar there with him. They shared the soap easily, rubbing one another down, scrubbing the day off, until Rodney’s skin was pink, and John was a little squeaky. 

John would never tell him, because like any man he could understand the humble vanity in a receding hairline, but seeing Rodney’s hair wet always accentuated it and did the craziest thing -- it turned John _on_. Maybe it was because he couldn’t kid himself that he was with anyone other than a man. Maybe because it had as much personality as Rodney did, sticking up with angry indignation when he was pissed off, or flat when he was sad, or just a hint curly at the nape of his neck when he was flirting shamelessly and hiding it behind sarcasm. Whatever the case, it was sexy as hell. In another few years Rodney would probably go all Patrick Stewart, and the thought of Rodney bald only turned John on more, if that were possible.

"You know, that smile has made lesser mortals tremble in fear, Colonel," Rodney said, but the answering one was in his eyes. They slid together, wet and warm, and John relaxed again. "So, I’ve got a plan."

"Plan?"

"Wasn’t it you who said that before any major maneuver, a plan had to be in place in case the shit hit the fan?"

"I seem to remember saying something to that effect, though I don’t so much recall ‘fans’ as ‘FUBAR’."

Rodney waved a regal hand, soap running down his forearm. It was remarkably adorable. "You have me on your team. Things don’t _go_ FUBAR. They go Thank God We’ve Got McKay."

"That’s no acronym at all," John teased, running his fingers through the thick hair at Rodney’s neck, and down his back. He had a back to be envied. Smooth, with hard muscles and strength John doubted Rodney even knew he had. There were two tiny moles, one low, above his left hip, and one below his right shoulder blade that John might have been a little obsessed with licking when he was driving in deep. 

Kissing Rodney was so good. Kissing Rodney while they were bathing each other was even better. His mouth was wide, and yes, crooked as hell, but he knew what to _do_ with it. He kissed with his whole body like John hadn’t seen since the old Cary Grant movies his mom had made him watch, arms wrapped tight around John’s body, tilted just so. He always kissed like this, no matter if they were in the privacy of John’s bed or catching something quick in some out of the corner hallway or room (an _addiction_ ). It was what had first made John think that maybe this whole topping business might be overrated because that body against him, just like that, was--

"God," he croaked, breathing fast and sharp against Rodney’s cheek. "Rodney--"

"Yeah," Rodney said, because neither of them had really softened, but now-- "Yeah, I," and those violently blue eyes of his all but shot through him. "No, no-no-no, we’re--look," and he took John’s ridiculously expensive cream rinse off the shower shelf, squeezing out a dollop onto his hand, and before John could so much as raise a yell for the manhandling of his shampoo, Rodney had turned him to face the hot spray and taken him in hand. Literally.

John stared down at his cock head peeking from Rodney’s big, big hand. Rodney stroked, and John’s knees went like so much jello, because it was Rodney’s _hand_ , and that was never a bad thing. Rodney was pressed up behind him, his erection snug in the furrow of Johns cheeks, and it was pale arm and John’s tan skin and those fucking amazing fingers -- "Breathe, John."

John sucked in a dizzying breath and let it out slowly, eyes clenching and opening before he could focus. " _Fuck_."

"That’s the idea, yes," he murmured in John‘s ear. Something of the panic he must have felt shown through, because Rodney peered over John’s shoulder to catch his eye. "I’m going to tell you what I do, okay? I’ve had enough of surprising you to last me a lifetime."

The black eye Rodney had sported for almost two weeks, when he’d walked up behind John and tapped his shoulder a little too quietly, wasn’t something the two of them would soon forget. " _Rodney_."

"I only remind you because I’m dealing with more delicate anatomy this time and it wouldn’t do to have to explain to Carson how I got two broken legs," Rodney said, sounding way too amused for it to be healthy.

John cleared his throat, sounding rather bubbly, and said under the spray, "What are you going to do then?"

"I’m going to eat your ass out, and when my tongue gets tired, I‘m going to finger you until you come," Rodney said, matter-of-factly.

And suddenly _wham_ , John pictured every single meal that had ever passed through his body, some in worse states than others; the mutant shits from Afghanistan and the worst stomach flu in the history of mankind upon arrival at McMurdo. And he cringed, he _cringed_ , because no fucking way was Rodney -- but he _was_ , he was already getting on his knees, and John tried to turn but Rodney had way too firm hands on his hips, steadying him and keeping him still. 

John heard himself babbling, something about "Oh my fucking God, McKay" and "I am never fucking kissing you again" and "No fucking way are you doing this" and in general, used the word ‘fuck’ a lot. By the time Rodney had spread his thighs, John was muttering nothing _but_ a litany of ‘fuck’, still trying to squirm free, but Rodney had been a sneaky bastard because John couldn’t move, seeing as he was face to face with the shower wall, and Rodney was bracing himself on John’s body. To his horror, he was unable to move or stop looking over his shoulder, like he was witnessing a train wreck. Rodney was going to--

"You know, John, we’re not going to get very far if you’ve passed out from oxygen deprivation, and I am _not_ bailing your ass out to Carson," Rodney said, _why did he have to say ‘bailing his ass out_ , because the mental imagery was coming fast and god awful now. 

He sucked in a dizzying breath anyway.

Rodney ignored him completely, muttering something suspiciously like "ass virgin" into John’s thigh, spread his butt cheeks, and pushed his face between them.

The horror ratcheted up about six billion points because Rodney’s tongue, it… John loved Rodney’s tongue, _loved_ it, but he did not like it flickering across his -- and Rodney shoved until John bent over a little, and he had no choice but to brace himself on the shower wall when Rodney yanked his hips back and went at it.

He licked. He swirled. He tongued John’s asshole and his perineum like a fucking ice cream cone, palming his balls, then up to where John’s hand had clenched on his cock like it was the life line to the rational. He unclenched John’s fingers and started to move with them, coaxing John’s flesh harder as he licked, flicking the tip of his tongue against the wrinkles of John’s asshole with a horrible mastery.

And then something surprising happened. John’s brain mutinied, sent a wracking shiver down to his suddenly violently aroused cock, and jerked his hips back into Rodney’s face. It happened so fast John couldn’t stop it, couldn’t make up for it, and worse -- it encouraged Rodney because he straightened his tongue… and _pushed_.

Just as suddenly as it had pushed it slid away, and John heard from somewhere around his ass, "Relax, will you? I need my tongue for other things besides sex," and that was it, that capped it.

Before John could spin around and give Rodney a piece of his mind, Rodney did something horribly fantastic to John’s aching cock, a sort of flick-twist-pull thing that made his knees go to jelly, and the tongue was back. Only instead of teasing, it went for the whole thing, pushing deep until John was sure those were teeth, and lips, which turned his treacherous cock into molten steel in his hand. Wet and slippery inside, Rodney’s tongue flicked, teasing, before it pulled back and thrust in again.

Rodney took up a steady pace that made John think that maybe the man had eaten other asses out, a connoisseur of ass-eating, as it were, because no way could this feel so good so fast without some kind of skill involved. A wrack of shivers raced through John’s body like he’d never felt, turning his nipples into tight little pebbles, made his cheeks and face feel flushed and hot under the cool spray. 

_I’m getting rimmed. I am getting a rim job._

John was sure he should be horrified. At least he had been, until Rodney pulled back, making embarrassing noises of his own, and for a flash of a second John thought that Rodney was going to say something completely embarrassing that would scar John for life, of the ’musky’ or, God forbid, ’nutty’ variety. Instead Rodney made a low sound not unlike a moan, and when the tongue came back, it had a friend. A friend in the shape of one of Rodney’s long, thick, gorgeous fingers.

Before John could scream that he couldn’t handle a rim with added fingers, for fuck’s sake get _out of his ass_ , that finger slid in against his wet and swollen flesh ridiculously easy, crooked, and set fire through John’s body.

He made a sound that might have been a scream (but was instead a manly roar), and had Rodney not had those linebacker shoulders of his bracing John, John would have slipped on the tile and taken a nose dive into the wall. 

Pleasure was for sinking into a hot body and fucking your way to oblivion. Pleasure was a firm hand or a skilled mouth. Pleasure had never been this, had never made ‘in’ so good, when all John knew about sex pertained to ‘out’. It had never made him forget all those mutant shits in favor of touching _that_ spot, which was connected to his ass and his cock, so John’s body couldn’t help thrusting into the touch. It just so happened that on the move back, he fucked himself onto Rodney’s finger. 

He felt it, like he hadn’t felt something in a long time. How big it was, the almost gentle scrape of fingernail, the way Rodney’s hand molded to John’s ass. Fingers stroked his perineum, his cock, his insides, rubbing and rubbing and then moving, the slow pull out and then _in_.

"John," Rodney murmured, and suddenly there was weight against his back, pressing into him, close, all over, and Rodney’s free fingers stroking over John’s hand splayed on the wall. 

God. _God_. 

"Rodney," John croaked, and the finger inside rewarded him with a slow, slow rub against that spot. 

Rodney’s tongue -- _the tongue he’d had up John’s ass_ \-- traced the shell of John’s ear, sucking on the lobe, then low, under his ear, which always sent John to cloud nine. Rodney’s fingers were serious, now that John had gotten over the gut-eating panic of them being in the vicinity of his posterior, and the one in his ass moved slow and sure. It didn’t stop, not for the weirdness, not for the fullness, not when John tried to squirm away and not when he pushed back into it. It just kept that steady pace, and Rodney stayed at his ear. "Feels good, eh?"

"No," John choked, but he knew it was a lie, and more importantly, so did Rodney.

"No? Really. Not when I," and Rodney’s finger sort of twisted and curved at the same time, and John arched back with what could only be called hysteria in his throat. The back of his head fit perfectly against Rodney‘s shoulder. "Or how about--" and he rubbed, firm and fast, against the head of John’s cock at the same time he ground into that spot, that _spot_.

The word ‘fuck’ had become John’s friend and confidant. There was no other explanation for why it was the only thing he could think of to say, because… well, _fuck_. Rodney’s finger, and his tongue, and his hand, and even the panic eating its way happily through John’s belly, was bringing him on the straight course to sudden and violent orgasm. "Rodney," he begged, bucking into Rodney’s hand. It wasn’t his fault that it immediately made him move back into Rodney’s finger. 

"Yeah," Rodney said, and he sounded choked, which only turned John on more. "Come on, just let go."

"I can’t-- _Rodney_."

The finger slipped free, and before John could feel relief or disappointment, there it was again. Only this time, the finger wasn‘t alone. 

To say John exploded was an understatement. Orgasm was held back, held back, held back, and then suddenly it was his whole being. It was so beyond fire that chills wracked John’s frame, where Rodney’s fingers were lodged deep, _rubbing_ , where his fingers were around the base of John‘s dick, unmoving and tight.

Orgasm, like pleasure, had always been ‘out‘. It was thrust and push, then hold still and deep. Rodney’s hand made it feel like John was as deep inside someone’s body as he could get, but the pleasure wasn’t from his cock. It was inside, where Rodney was pumping and rubbing ruthlessly, milking out orgasm so long that John went lightheaded and he didn’t hear himself sobbing until sound came back all at once.

Then he bolted.

Or tried to, anyway.

His knees had gone weak. His muscles were wobbly. And dammit, Rodney was holding him so hard, so tight, hugging him with his whole body, that it was impossible to get loose without hurting them both in the slippery shower.

It was the only reason John didn’t land a left hook and run for his life. 

"That felt good," Rodney murmured, and tucked John’s face against his shoulder like he was some _little woman_ , but now that John thought about it, he was kind of winded and needed a second to rest before he ran away screaming anyway. "You’re okay."

John made a noise. It might have been ‘fuck you, you ass spelunking connoisseur‘. All that came out was a series of gurgles and choked noises around the thickness of his tongue.

And then Rodney took his hand, and kissed his shoulder, and looked at him with that sweet adoration he got sometimes when he thought it wouldn’t show on his face, but John could see it out of the corner of his eye. "You got come on the wall."

Actually, John had gotten come almost to the ceiling. He tipped his head back and stared. 

Rodney hooked his chin over John’s shoulder. "I’m thinking a nine out of ten."

John frowned at the weird design his come had made on the bumpy tile. "Why’d I lose a point?"

"Most of it is on you."

John looked down, and sure enough, the shower was washing off the white ribbons of it. "Huh."

"Come on."

Rodney shut off the water and they dried off with those military issue, holy towels. Everything felt surreal, as if now that the fight or flight instinct had been squashed, John’s life had rearranged itself. Dread curled in his gut. He wasn’t gay. …Okay, he was a little gay, but fucking someone and being gay was not the same as taking it up the ass and being gay. 

He cast his eyes over to Rodney, busily scrubbing his teeth.

Rodney liked taking it up the ass. Loved it. All but panted for it. And there wasn’t much about Rodney that John thought was gay. Sure he was dorky, but that was just Rodney being Rodney. No one could look at Rodney and think ‘sequins.’ With someone like, say, Grodin, it had been obvious.

There was nothing about the way Rodney moved or acted that said he was pitching or receiving for any particular team. If anything, he was damned manly. Couldn’t have a body like that and be anything but.

"Rodney."

"Mmm?"

"You’re hard."

Rodney rinsed and spit before gracing John with one of those spine tingling glares of his that always turned John on so damn much. "Congratulations, Colonel, for once again showing us lowly plebes the power of your observational skills."

John rolled his eyes right on back. "I meant, still hard. You didn‘t come."

"Not all of us have the come back power of a sixteen year old," Rodney said, but John would have to be deaf not to hear the strain in his voice. 

Oh. 

All of John’s defenses came up, and he crossed his arms across his chest. "You want to fuck me."

Now that the harsh grain of need-orgasm-now-grunt-grunt had been polished away, he could think clearly, rationally. If John agreed to this, he was going to get the fuck of his life. He had no delusions about the power in Rodney’s shoulders, hips, and thighs -- if he said yes, he might get a little addicted to it, could already feel the stirring in his cock impossibly fast, the strange emptiness inside where Rodney’s fingers had stretched him. 

It scared him worse than anything he’d ever faced in his life.

"I want to do whatever you feel like doing." Rodney’s mouth may have said no, but his body was a whole other language John was well versed in by now. He could tell when Rodney was excited and trying not to show it. He could also tell Rodney was getting a little ticked off with him. "What the hell is your problem, anyway? You’re acting like I hurt you, John." He shifted a little. "Did I?"

Well, it _had_ hurt, a little. But if he was going to be fair, as much as it galled him, he had to admit that the come on the wall -- the come in his _hair_ , was evidence to how much he‘d liked it. "We’re taking this too fast."

Rodney arched a brow at him, wiping his face. The rasp of his stubble made John go a little weak. "If we were going any slower we’d be going backwards in time, and you know it." He exhaled, rubbed the towel through his hair -- damn him, he _had to know_ what the hair did to John -- and set it to the side. 

"Look. You don’t want me inside you, do you?" When John said nothing, Rodney got a strange look on his face, there and gone again too fast to catalogue. "If you want to be an exclusive top, I’ll live with it. It isn’t like it’s some hardship on my part."

And John knew it was true. He exhaled, a great weight falling off his shoulders, and looked up in time to see Rodney smile. There was something a little brittle about it, but the relief was so great that John ignored it and took Rodney’s hand, grinning broadly. "Thanks, Rodney."

"Yeah, yeah. Now," he flicked a finger against the erection already starting to rise between John’s legs. "There hasn‘t been enough blood in my brain for the last thirty minutes. Granted, I have brain cells to spare, but one of them may contain the key to ZedPM making, so…"

This, John knew. This, John could do. 

He grinned and grabbed Rodney, and everything was all right with the world.

Except it wasn’t.

Everything _felt_ the same. Rodney, gasping against him. The taste of his cock. The taste of his skin. The heat between them, the slow build up, John’s clever fingers and Rodney’s grasping ass. The slow, languid push inside, and Rodney’s noises -- groaning low, then high when John hit that good spot John was not going to think about outside of giving Rodney pleasure. 

And pleasure him he did. John threw in every trick he knew; touched, rubbed, and sucked every spot Rodney liked. He screwed in and pulled out at the speed Rodney loved the best, matching it with his hand on Rodney‘s cock. All in all, he tried to be the most attentive he could be, to make it good -- better than good -- so Rodney remembered why he loved this so much.

It was unstoppable. Skin and hot breath and Rodney, insatiable and so aroused he was straining against John, panting curses and pleas. John was sure, as he lunged deep, filled Rodney up, that half of what Rodney was gasping wasn’t in English.

Everything felt the same, and at the same time, everything felt completely off. Like it was wrong somehow. Rodney’s eyes were bright like always, but there was something in them, in his body language, that screamed something was very wrong. 

Afterward, when they lay panting, the sweat cooling, John turned his head to look at him. Rodney was exactly where John had left him, on his belly, back heaving with his gasps, his eyes closed and his expression blank with release. 

John couldn’t help but feel like he’d fucked up in some huge way, and for the life of him, he couldn’t understand what he’d done. 

He rubbed a palm down Rodney’s sweaty back, thumbing carefully along his ribs. "Rodney?"

"Mmm."

"You okay?"

"Why wouldn’t I be?"

"Nothing, I just…" He rubbed Rodney’s arm, up his shoulder, into his hair. Still damp from the shower and from sweat, strands of it clung to his temple and cheek. "Felt good?"

"It always does," Rodney said, and didn’t exactly jerk away from his touch, but he didn’t lean into it. Instead, he rolled to sitting, hissing slightly before he climbed to his feet.

"Where are you going?"

"Lab. There’s an experiment I want to check up on, and some paperwork I need to finish before the meeting tomorrow morning."

John frowned at him. Rodney cuddled after they fucked. Always. Even when they fucked in a closet, Rodney always got in a cuddle before they went their separate ways. John could admit to liking it a little, and was strangely hurt that Rodney pulled away. "This isn’t about before, right?"

Rodney leaned down for his shorts. "I have no idea what you’re talking about, as usual."

"About before. About not wanting you to… you know."

Rodney didn’t flinch, and John had to give him credit for that. He did freeze though, just for a second. It was all the answer John needed. "It is, isn’t it? I thought you were going to be okay with that, Rodney. I thought you said it wasn’t a -- what were your words? A hardship."

"It isn’t," Rodney said, and yanked his pants on. 

John waited a moment to see if more was coming, but when Rodney remained silent, tugging his shirt on, John knew he’d hit on it. Fuck. "Don’t be an asshole about this."

Rodney didn’t so much as look at him as he left.

.

It wasn’t that Rodney stopped talking to him, or that they had a huge fight or a falling out. Everything was completely, perfectly normal. 

It was driving John absolutely batshit crazy.

Rodney was his usual self. Screaming and yelling at his minions, taking his meals with the team. Complaining about everything, from the texture of the PX4-Elk Lorne and his boys had brought back, to the way John wasn’t _thinking at the ancient doodad the right way dammit._

He even let John touch him. Blowjobs in dark corners, a memorable mutual hand job in the lab, kisses as much as they could get them in. They got too busy for anything else -- between the rescue mission to get Lieutenant King and his team out of a hostile situation, which of course had led to a confrontation with the fucking Genii, and a one day hospital stay with a concussion, they didn’t have time to have sex.

But still, John knew something was wrong.

He let sleeping dogs lie, and two weeks passed. Everything was that not-quite-normal, and John thought maybe he was dreaming it out of some niggling guilt.

That is, until Ronon plunked down in front of him one afternoon, tray clattering to the table, and dug in with his usual gusto. "What’s going on between you and McKay, Sheppard?"

John inhaled sharply, gagged, and choked on the piece of Elk he’d been trying to push down. It took three violent thwaps on the back courtesy of Ronon for John to cough the whole, slimy mouthful back up. "What?"

"You and McKay."

"What _about_ me and McKay?"

"He’s acting weird. Weirder. What did you do to him?"

"What makes you think I did anything?" John demanded.

Ronon smirked, glancing down at the slimy mouthful John had just hacked up.

"Nothing is going on."

Ronon shrugged. "Whatever."

At least John knew he wasn’t going crazy. Ronon had seen it too. "What’s he acting like?"

"I thought you said you hadn’t done anything."

"I didn’t! But maybe someone else did. As team leader, I should know if something is wrong."

Ronon peered at him, totally seeing through John’s crusty haze of bullshit, but he tipped his head and spoke anyway. "He’s acting weird around you."

"Weird?"

Ronon stared at him. Getting information out of Ronon might as well have been a Grail quest, half the time. 

"What exactly do you mean by ‘weird?"

Ronon shrugged, and dug into his elk with more enthusiasm than was strictly necessary.

Great. As if John needed more on his plate.

In the best of circumstances, he would have chosen that week, that day, that _hour_ to come down with some weird Pegasus version of the measles, some deadly strain that put him up in a bed, made him look pathetic, and cleared the air between him and Rodney without having to actually _say_ anything. If he couldn’t manage the measles, he would have settled for a broken leg. A cave in. A year or two taken off his life by the _Wraith_. Anything to put off having to talk about his _feelings._

But of course, in this galaxy, cave ins and broken bones didn’t happen when you conveniently needed them to, and so that was why he found himself knocking on Rodney’s door near midnight a few days later. He had MRE’s in hand. It was safer to come bearing offerings.

"Come in!"

John hadn’t actually spent a lot of time in Rodney’s room. Between the equipment spread out over every available surface, his Wall of Congratulatory Splooge, and the tiny mattress, there wasn’t a lot of room in there for the two of them, not like in John’s room. 

Rodney was sitting at his desk, type-type-typing away at his laptop. He glanced up a bit when John came in, then back down. "Colonel."

"Hey, Rodney. Mind if I come in?"

"Lock the door behind you."

This was normal; Rodney typing, shoes off and his hair adorably mussed from the day, but not curly at the neck like it usually got by this time of day -- it was kind of wild and sad looking at the same time, like Rodney had been yanking it all day. John stroked his fingers through it, down to the nape, then reached down for a kiss. Rodney even leaned up to it, and some of the tension in John’s gut eased. "Hey."

"Hey, yourself. I hope you didn’t show up without food."

"Too well did I remember," John said, in a passable Yoda impersonation, just to see Rodney grin that dorky grin of his complete with complimentary eye roll. "Actually, I had to finesse these out of Cadman. There are unforeseen perks to being the head honcho."

"What?" Rodney snatched the MRE‘s out of his hands, and stared down at it in wide-eyed wonder. If John didn‘t know any better, he‘d have said that he saw the glint of a tear in Rodney‘s eye. "Meatball? You brought me Meatball MRE’s?"

"The last two on the entire base. Caldwell doesn’t believe in meatballs, I guess."

But Rodney didn’t hear him. He was tearing into the MRE, and that first bite gave him that blissed out expression John loved. 

He opened his own MRE, meatloaf, and they ate together in companionable silence. Why some people got so grossed out watching Rodney eat was a mystery. The man showed an enthusiasm for food that he had for everything else, and there was nothing like having that same enthusiasm trained on your cock to make you rethink the whole ‘grossed out‘ thing. 

Mmm.

John set his MRE to the side, half-eaten and forgotten, and took the second MRE before Rodney could open it too. He set it beside the meatloaf, took Rodney’s face in his hands, and kissed him. Slow, methodical, warm. Nice. "Eat it later."

"MRE…sex. Sex… MRE. You drive a hard bargain, Colonel," Rodney said, but he was smiling again, kind of crooked. Those same people who got grossed out watching him eat had never seen Rodney open up to sex, never seen that want in his eyes. 

"Rodney? Are we okay?"

"That’s the second time you’ve asked me in as many weeks, Colonel." 

Which wasn’t an answer at all, but before John could point this out, Rodney was kissing him, and he had his hands in Rodney’s hair, and Rodney had his hands clamped on John’s shoulders, kneading slowly. 

There wasn’t much thinking, after that.

Rodney stood, pushing John back just enough so that he had no choice but to plunk down on the bed. Rodney all but melted to his knees between John’s legs, tracing his (admittedly skinny) thighs up to the crease of his groin, where Rodney pressed his face and breathed. 

"Rodney," John groaned. Rodney’s fingers stuttered on the buttons of his pants, yanking them open as fast as he could, and then it was heat, and warm mouth, and clever, clever tongue. 

Rodney could suck cock. God, he could suck cock. If there were a Nobel prize for cock sucking, Rodney would have three, mounted on a chain around his neck. He was good. Too good. But John had come because they finally had a night to themselves, a bed (a small bed, but a bed nonetheless) and a nightstand drawer full of lube John was planning on putting to good use.

So he let Rodney suck on him for a while, getting into it, into Rodney’s mouth and the feel of him, the sounds he was making. Rodney never touched lower than the bottom bulge of his cock, for which John was absurdly grateful. 

"Rodney," he begged, and dragged that mouth up to his. 

With a twist and a push they were tangled in each other, in the bed, and with another push John was over him. Bucking power between his thighs. 

Clothes came off. Sweat dampened them both, and it was, " _Touch me,_ " and " _Harder!_ " and " _More!_ " Rodney was all but begging for it, his hips bucking, his thighs tense. His feet beat a drum against the bed when John fit his mouth over that gorgeous cock, and John wasn’t great at this, but Rodney had never complained. 

It wasn’t until John reached into the bedside table for the lube that everything went completely to hell.

"What are you doing?" Rodney asked, panting.

"Lube," John grunted.

"No."

It was reflexive, almost a shout. John blinked down at him. "What?"

"No. Uh. No, to the lube."

John arched a brow. "Unless you’ve suddenly become a masochist, Rodney…"

"I mean no. I don’t want you to fuck me."

That low grade anxiety John had felt eating his stomach lining for the last couple of weeks turned into throat choking panic. "What’s wrong?"

"Nothing."

Still not looking at him. Instead, Rodney bucked under him and twisted, so he could turn on his side. John nearly fell off the bed, and was forced to half sit up. "Look, I’m tired. Maybe you should go."

Forget choking. The panic closed his throat completely. It took four good swallows for John to be able to speak again. "Want to tell me what the problem is, here? Since we obviously have one."

"No, Colonel, why in the world would we have a problem?" Rodney said, and there was a hint of that asshole John so loved.

"Rodney--"

"No." Rodney rolled to the side and stood, yanking his shorts back on. "Get out."

"Dammit, Rodney, just listen to me a second, okay? You’re pissed at me, I get that."

"Congratulations on your masterful deduction. Someone give the man a medal," Rodney snapped, yanking on his t-shirt.

"Would you stop being an asshole for five seconds?"

"Funny choice of words, Colonel."

And would you _stop_ with this ‘Colonel’ crap."

"You," Rodney snapped, his nostrils flaring. "I thought I could do this, that it didn’t mean anything, but it does."

"What does?!" John finally snapped, jumping to his feet. "What the hell are you talking about? Jesus Christ, Rodney, throw me a bone, here."

"You and your, your _phobia_ ," Rodney snarled, doing ridiculous looking air quotes. "No phobia in sight when you’re fucking me, is there?"

"Is this because I won’t let you fuck me? I thought you were _okay_ with that!"

Rodney stared at him like he was three gumpa beans short of a gumpa sandwich. "It isn’t about that. None of this is about that! Okay, maybe it’s a little about that, but what was I supposed to say, huh? "No, it isn’t okay that the thought of my cock in you makes you scream and run away in horror!""

God. _God_. "You swore you wouldn’t pressure me about this. You swore, Rodney!"

"You’re a coward," Rodney snapped, and poked him in the chest, hard enough to make John nearly hit the floor again. "You’re a coward because you _like me_ , and like me touching you, and you‘re too chicken shit to admit it." 

And god help him, despite himself, John felt his blood freefall into his cock.

He shoved Rodney’s poking finger away, and it took everything in him not to punch that arrogant face. "Fuck you," John hissed. "You’re supposed to understand."

"I understand completely. It’s really quite simple, Colonel. Just as I understand that I can’t take anymore of this. I won’t -- I _refuse_ to be your cloak-and-dagger."

"Are you kidding me?" John spluttered, throwing his hands in the air. "You know we have to keep this quiet!"

"Not while _you’re alone with me_!" Rodney roared. He threw his arms to the sides. "We’re alone! No one else here! Just me. And you," he poked John’s chest. "can’t," again, "take," another poke, "it." 

Something cold and hard hit the pit of John’s stomach. "Rodney."

"I am sick and tired of going around feeling like what we’re doing is wrong. I’m tired of _you_ making me feel like I’m a criminal." Rodney gave him a shove back towards the door. 

Rodney had it wrong. All so wrong. 

John was good with guns. He was good with explosives. He was good with people. 

He was not good at talking about his feelings. 

It was something basic, instilled when he was too young to remember. Feelings weren’t to be talked about, or alluded to. John couldn’t remember his father ever once talking about his feelings, not even at his mothers funeral. He never said he loved her. But it had been in his eyes, in the blood no one but John could see running out of him through the wound in his chest.

He floundered for words, now. Because he did care, and he did want, and he did, god help him, love. But the words weren’t there, and the hurt in Rodney’s eyes only increased, masked by red hot fury.

"Get out," Rodney snarled, shoving his clothes at him, pushing him to the door. "Get the fuck out and don’t come back until you’re over your big gay freak out, because I’m not talking to you until you do."

The door slammed shut behind him.

\- = - = - 

John knew better than to wish for things like cave-ins and measles, he really did. He’d seen too many men torn apart, had too much blood on his hands. It had been bad since coming to Pegasus, real bad, but -- and John hated to think of it like this -- it had never been anyone close. He hadn’t even known Grodin that well, not like Rodney. And since Ford was running around the Pegasus Galaxy eating Wraith, John didn’t count him.

John was one of those men who got through things. Some soldiers, despite trying their best, panicked on the job. John didn’t. His world went like steel, colored only with what needed to get done. 

The infirmary was loud. Too loud, for having come in at two in the morning. The nurses were some of the most professional that John had ever met, but even he could hear the panic in their voices, in Beckett’s, who’d raced past him not an hour ago, still wearing his pajama shirt.

The blood had caked in the beds of John’s fingernails. 

It was his fault. This was his fault. If he’d been paying closer attention, if he hadn’t had Rodney on his brain, things would have been so different. If he died in there, if Beckett couldn’t bring him back… John would live the rest of his life knowing that one of the bravest people he’d ever met had died because of John’s stupidity.

Hours passed. Every fucking time John tried to get some news, he was pushed back out to the waiting room. "Wait for the doctor to see you" and "We’ll let you know" and "Please calm down, Colonel Sheppard!"

He couldn’t be calm. 

Sometime in the fourth hour, he stopped trying to get news. He just sat, slumped in the chairs Beckett was using as a waiting room. Elizabeth had arrived sometime ago, murmuring, and Teyla’s soft voice answering her. No one asked John for a debrief, for which he was painfully grateful. He was even able to keep his eyes averted and staring straight at the wall when Dr. Howard came out to do their post-mission check.

Hours passed. Nurses came and went, trying to get him to go, shower, change his clothes. Something. John didn’t even open his eyes to them. They were _his_ people, his team, and he wasn’t going anywhere. 

More time passed. Nurses came to report every hour. No news. Still in surgery. Go _shower_ Colonel Sheppard, you’re covered in blood. Go _sleep_ Colonel Sheppard, you’re exhausted.

"Colonel."

John’s eyes snapped open, and he stared up at Carson’s kind face uncomprehendingly for a second before blinking and rubbing his aching eyes. "Hey, Doc." For a second, only a fraction of a second, he was terrified of asking, but Carson couldn’t shield his heart from his face, and he didn’t look anything but tired. "How is he?"

"Alive."

The infirmary was quite now. Pre-dawn light was shifting out over the horizon, and in the near dark, Carson looked like he was surrounded in pale blue light. He also looked just about as exhausted as John had ever seen him, and his pajama shirt was ruined. "He’s alive, son, but just barely. If you hadn’t gotten him back when you did…" Carson sighed again. "He’s strong. I have confidence he’ll pull through."

John exhaled slowly, rubbing his fingers through his hair. "Spinal damage?"

"Minimal. One of the arrows was close - it caused some tissue damage, some bleeding and swelling we were able to drain and get under control. I’m more worried about the gut wound."

John knew. He remembered, in god fucking awful detail. "Hit his stomach."

"Aye," Carson said, and leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. "Sepsis may be a problem. We’re doing all we can, keeping him flushed and pumped with antibiotics, but it’s up to him now." The compassion in his eyes was bright. "You did right by him, Colonel. Packing it the way you did, getting him home so quickly."

"Rodney," John said, his voice a croak, and closed his eyes for a second. "I couldn’t do it. Had to keep them off us. Rodney did it."

"Aye, then you both did a good job."

John turned to look at Rodney, asleep beside him, one of the blankets a kind nurse had brought out to them pulled up to his chin and hiding the worst of the blood stains. 

"It’s my fault, Doc."

The compassion in Carson’s eyes grew, and he gently touched John’s shoulder. "We’re not perfect, son. We do what we can to get by, to live as well as we can, to prove the people who love us proud. You did right by Ronon." He squeezed John’s shoulder. "It’s only because of Ronon’s peak physical condition, and the sheer bloody size of him, that he survived this at all. Recovery will be hard, yes, but he will recover."

John heard what the man was saying. If it had been one of them, they’d be dead. 

God fucking dammit.

"You did a good job, Doc."

Carson opened his eyes and gave him a little smile strained at the corners. "I did what I could. It’s up to him, now." He stood with a creak of bones. 

"Rice crispy knees."

John turned and looked at Rodney. He looked ridiculous, wearing all his gear and tucked under the blanket like he was. Those big blue eyes were bright above the edge of it. 

"Aye, and it’s because of you, isn’t it? You run me ragged."

Rodney rolled his eyes and pulled the blanket off. He was so pale he looked translucent, and spattered with dark blood. "I wasn’t hurt this time, thank you."

"Thank God. I‘m not a pediatrician," Carson said, but it was only for show and they both knew it. "I see you’re well and good, Rodney. And Teyla," he said, when the smaller woman stood too. "Dr. Howard is a good doctor, but I wanted to make sure you were unhurt."

"Not a scratch," John said, and the bitterness nearly ate him alive. "Can we see him?"

"Aye, but just for a moment. He’s still unconscious and will be for a while yet, so just a peak and then off with you."

They filed quietly into the infirmary. The sole occupant of the room lay at the end, close to the nurses and Carson’s office. It was bad. Worse than Carson had let on.

Ronon was attached to three dozen different machines. He was naked, but for a sheet to cover some unheard of modesty, but even then John could just make out the wires snaking underneath and into his body. He was intubated, and his body was a mess of mottled skin, iodine stains, and bandages. 

"He’s going to panic," Rodney said, voice hollow. For a second John thought he meant him, but Rodney was staring at Ronon. "The respirator. He’s going to freak completely out."

"He’ll be heavily sedated until tomorrow," Carson said. Maybe there was something in their expressions, because he added, "The respirator is just to take some of the stress off of his body. He’s not out of the woods yet, but I have every confidence he’s going to pull through."

"May I sit with him a while?" Teyla asked.

"Aye, I’m sure he would like that, but only for a few minutes. Just one visitor at a time, though," he said, and looked pointedly at John and Rodney both. "I want the both of you to get some rest."

By unspoken agreement, they walked together. When these things happened, you bonded with your teammates, no matter if those teammates currently thought you no better than the scum on the bottom of their shoe.

They were silent, but not uncomfortable like it had been for the last few days. Rodney kept picking at one of his nails where the blood had crusted.

Atlantis was so quiet. The only ones moving the halls were the guys on night shift, and John and Rodney themselves. In another hour the mess would start getting ready for the day, the scientists would either get up or go to bed, and John’s men would start their daily run. Dawn would come in through the glass windows, red and green and blue. Atlantis would smell like coffee and bacon and sleep, then sweat when the men came back from their morning PT, and by ten or so, it would smell like excitement. There was always something happening on Atlantis.

And he and Rodney would be among them, so close and a world apart, and John’s heart broke, just a little. "Rodney."

They’d gotten to Rodney’s door. 

"Colonel," Rodney said, not looking at him. 

"I need to, I mean, I have to tell you that--"

"John."

When John just stood there, feeling stupid, Rodney sighed and opened the door wider. "This changes nothing."

Which was stupid, because they both knew it did, but John was too tired to argue about it right now.

It was all like he’d last seen it. Bed unmade. Wall of Congratulatory Splooge. Empty coffee mugs.

The loud thud behind him made him jerk, and he spun to see Rodney dumping his gear where he stood. The side arm, the laptop, the vest and jacket, all in a circle around him. He had gone a shade of white not seen in nature. "Colonel? You have blood on you."

"It’s John. And so do you."

Rodney looked down, as if seeing the splattered across his jacket for the first time. "Huh."

Rodney decided that it was as good a time as any to sag, and had John not been there, he’d have hit the floor, and probably stayed there. "Whoa, tiger." 

"You know what I want to do?" Rodney asked, eyes closed. 

John’s fingers carded gently through the thick hair at the base of Rodney’s neck. "What’s that?"

"I want to go on vacation. Somewhere with mountains. And snow. I ski pretty well. Kind of have to, being Canadian. There are some great slopes in the Northern Territories."

"Yeah?"

"Mmm. We should go. If you ever get over your big gay freak out. How’s that going, anyway?" 

"Still in Stage One. I’m going to see Elizabeth later this week."

Rodney’s lips curved against John’s throat. "Give anything to see her face."

"Yeah, thanks for that."

"Colonel?"

"Yeah?"

"You have blood on you."

Right. "I think you’re going into shock here, McKay."

"That’s not good."

"No, it’s not." John stood, and pulled Rodney to his feet. "Let’s get you into the shower, huh?"

"You going to join me?"

"I thought you said this didn’t change anything between us."

"That was before you told me I was going into shock. I don’t need my brains all over the shower floor, thank you very much."

"It’s just a little bit of shock."

"As opposed to a lot? Thank you for _that."_

"What, you want me to lie to you?"

"If I’m about to die, yes!"

"You’re not about to die, Sir Rodney of Hypochondria."

"You know, that gets less and less funny."

"And yet, I still continue to enjoy saying it." 

John led Rodney into the bathroom. He ignored all his stuff still spread out over the counter, his favorite towel looped over one of the bars, and instead carefully undressed himself. Off came the blood splattered clothes, the shoes and socks, and then it was just them, Rodney and John, with McKay and the Colonel lying stripped at their feet.

The shower was warm. Rodney was warm. And it was all so familiar -- Rodney looping his arms around John’s waist and laying his head on John’s shoulder. Wrapping his arms right on back, one hand in the thick hair of Rodney’s hair. Rodney and his receding hairline, the way they soaped each other down. 

Neither of them looked down at the pink water circling the drain.

John traced the long, pale length of Rodney’s naked back. His hair, flat on one side, curly at the nape. John could count every eyelash, every imperfection of Rodney‘s face. Could trace the wide nose with the pixie tip, the slashing mouth, the tiny mole on the left hand side of his jaw that, like the ones on his back, John was a little bit obsessed with. The sweet curve of his arrogant chin, the slashing brows. 

The fact that there was nothing beautiful about him only made him more so in John’s eyes.

Rodney was ice cold chocolate milk and warm, gooey oatmeal cookies. He was the thick Persian rugs in their house in Turkey that made John feel like he was sinking, and every second he spent in fucking Afghanistan. He was that long summer in the big white house in Georgia, long wings made out of grocery bags and string, and his mom laughing in his ear as she swept him up and made him fly. He was that deep, long cold winter in Munich and the choke-ache-heat of summer in San Antonio. 

It didn’t matter if John wanted it or not. Rodney was already deep. Deeper than anyone had ever been. It didn’t sound like much, but for a man who had no roots, it meant more than he could ever possibly say.

They dried themselves off with their holey towels, and then it was just the two of them, under the sheets. John was perfectly aware anyone could find out about this, that he may as well have been signing his own court martial. 

He couldn’t find it in himself to care.

He curled onto his side; Rodney lay on his belly, and then it was quiet and comfort. He stroked a hand down Rodney’s back, then lower over the swell of his backside. Hard with muscle from too much time spent running for their lives, but soft, too. Heavy and full. Sliding between those cheeks, sliding _home_ , meant something. Meant things John was terrified of thinking about. Meant emotions too sharp to feel. 

"John?"

"Mmm?"

Rodney turned his head. He didn’t have to go far, considering they were sharing a pillow. "I love you."

John closed his eyes. Something sharp hurt in his chest. "I know."

"A lot."

"I know that, too." He slid his fingers over Rodney’s butt, then down over a warm thigh. 

"You don’t have to say it back, or anything. Not if you don’t. I had a girlfriend once who always swore to the moon that she loved me, but I’d only known her for three weeks, and she was more in love with my genius than anything-- that, and I’m a Viking in the sack, but she--"

"Rodney," John murmured, to calm the babble before Rodney let things spill he might otherwise have refrained from mentioning. "You’re… you are the most important part of my life. Losing you would be bad. Real bad."

"Well, duh." Rodney had the bad grace to preen. 

John smacked him on the ass, and before Rodney could so much as squeak, soothed it away with his fingertips. "I’m sorry. About the big gay freak out."

"Well, you’ve handled it pretty well, considering."

"Considering?"

"I’m your first."

"That obvious, huh?"

"Neon sign. I’ve had twenty years to get used to the idea of gay sex. And I may have -- may -- have pushed you a little." Rodney slid his hand out from under the pillow and linked their fingers. "But I’m not taking the blame for you being an asshole."

"That’s harsh. I was never an asshole. A bastard, maybe. A dirt bag, probably. But not an asshole." He paused, stroking his thumb over the back of Rodney’s hand. "We could die, Rodney."

"Well duh. We could catch Pegasus chicken pox. Or Atlantis could sink. Or the Wraith could attack, while Atlantis was sinking and we were sick with Pegasus Pox. What does that have to do with anything?"

"I figure it would be pretty terrible if things remained undone between us."

Rodney went still. "We’ve already done this dance number."

"I know."

"I want to fuck you."

John closed his eyes tight. "I know."

"I’d make it good."

"I know that, too."

"You don’t want to like it, do you?"

"Big gay freak out, remember?"

"It all makes so much sense, now."

"I thought it might." He exhaled, slowly. "I wasn’t joking, about talking to Elizabeth."

"I figured."

"You’re important to me, Rodney, but don’t ask me to chose between you and Atlantis."

And at that, Rodney turned on his side and met his eyes, square on. "She’s important to the both of us."

John turned too, stuffing his arm under the pillow, the other sliding over Rodney’s waist. Their legs met and twined easily, the blanket was brought up, and for the first time in days, John relaxed. They fit together in ways no one else ever quite had. They were good together. Real good. 

John closed his eyes. "Ronon almost died today."

"Yeah."

"I wasn’t paying attention."

"Of course you weren’t, GI Joe. You were helping me with the useless Ancient doodad that got blown to smithereens when it almost blew up in our faces. Who knew Teyla had a pitchers arm like that?"

"She’s freakishly strong, isn’t she?"

"I’m terrified of her." Rodney got quiet for a moment. "Can you imagine what she’s like in bed?"

"Rodney!"

"Oh, what, like you haven’t thought of it."

John rolled his eyes and burrowed down. "Go to _sleep."_

"Oh, what? What? Those thighs!"

"Rodney!"

"She could probably break me with her pinky toe. How kinky is that?"

Rodney then proceeded to tell John the hundred and fifty ways he found Teyla’s hot super strength body sexy, all the while holding tightly to him, his head resting on John’s shoulder. It wasn’t long before his voice faded, then slurred into sleep.

No, the words wouldn’t come. But they would, someday, and John knew he’d mean them, down deep, just like he knew Rodney would be the first and last person he’d ever say them to. 

He closed his eyes, and slept.

\- = - = - 

A week later, he went to visit Ronon.

He had expected the worst, like those first few days after they‘d brought him back to Atlantis: Ronon pale and gaunt, his face sunken in, barely aware. He could honestly say that never in his wildest imagination would he have expected to find the man sitting up, happily slurping on red jello. The dreads had been taken out, seeing as half of them had been shaved off. A neat row of staples ran alongside his noggin, where an arrow had clipped him. 

With his lips stained red and his hair a wild mane around his head, Ronon looked like a demented lion. A very cheerful demented lion, with the haze of the Good Drugs still about him, enjoying his jello with more zeal than was strictly necessary. "Hey, big guy."

"Sheppard," he said, licking his spoon. "What’s up?"

"Not much," John said slowly, smirking. "Feeling good?"

Ronon just smiled right back, reaching for what looked like the fourth bowl of jello on his tray, green this time. "Doc has good drugs."

The smirk melted into a grin. "Enjoy them while they last." He leaned on the edge of the bed and stuck his hands in his pockets. "Came by to see how you were feeling."

"Good," Ronon announced. "Teyla’s going to fix my hair."

Anyone else saying it, and John would have laughed himself hoarse. Instead, Ronon just sounded cool. "It is looking interesting."

Ronon slurped.

"McKay came by earlier."

"Yeah?" John said, trying to sound nonchalant. He knew he failed by three miles if Ronon’s expression was anything to go by.

"He’s not acting weird anymore."

"Oh. Really?"

"Pretty surprising." Ronon didn’t _leer_ , but it was pretty damn close, "He looks happy. Relaxed. …Loose."

Oh, God. 

"Yeah. Uh. So. I’ve got--" John pointed behind him, started edging towards the door. "Get better soon, okay?" He bolted.

Ronon smirked and licked his spoon.


End file.
